


Always

by Heather_Night



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dead Aiden, Dead Allison Argent, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nogitsune Trauma, POV Derek, Protective Derek, Scott is a Bad Friend, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather_Night/pseuds/Heather_Night
Summary: When someone from his past unexpectedly comes back into Derek’s life he finds himself more at peace but some times big life changes come with a price for everyone involved.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not kind to Scott's character so if if you find that offensive, please don't read the story. Also, this fic departs heavily from show when it comes to the aftermath of the Nogitsune. 
> 
> I'm not a practitioner of BDSM and I'm not suggesting that people in the Lifestyle are damaged like my main characters but again, I took creative license to propel story line along.

_Always remember me_  
_When you are lost_  
_When you're in need_

_Always remember us_  
_If you miss the mark_  
_Even if you fall apart_

_Always_

_\- Always_ by Boxer Rebellion

 

Derek stretched his arms overhead, trying in vain to stifle a yawn. He never would’ve guessed that working for a BDSM club could be boring but apparently despite the sexy venue, paper work was paper work and boring as hell.

It was the middle of the afternoon and Wicked was slow which meant Derek could review some of the applications for membership. Rod, the buff blonde bartender, dropped another paper on top of Derek’s stack. 

Instead of walking by like he usually did, Rod paused and waited for Derek to look up at him. Derek quirked an eyebrow at the bartender; he didn’t want to encourage Rod to talk but apparently the blond wasn’t going to go away until he had his say.

Rod cocked his thumb towards the front office. “There’s a DCD out front. Look at his papers, I don’t think he’s a barney. Definitely a benny. You’re priority but if you’re not going to charge him, I’m going to drop in. He’s noodled though so you’d better jam.”

It took Derek a moment to parse Rod’s surfer speak. DCD was Rod slang for da cute dawg, or an adorable guy. Barney was a newbie to the scene, which apparently this guy didn’t seem to be. Benny was a non-local; Derek could never figure out how the bartender could tell when someone wasn’t local, especially as San Francisco was a big city, but he was almost always right. Rod was giving Derek first dibs and that probably meant the guy was into bondage and a sub. However, if Derek didn’t make a move quickly then Rod was going to steal him. Noodled…tired. 

Ugh. The potential sub wasn’t the only one tired. Talking to Rod positively exhausted him.

Derek gave Rod the hang loose signal, wiggling his hand with an extended thumb and little finger, and the blond nodded his head and moved toward the back of the bar to the kitchen.

Glancing down, Derek took in some of the basics on the application.

Steve Smith was supposedly a fit 21 year-old male who would sub for either a Dom or Domme. 

There were checkmarks under the pain/punishment/discipline category next to spanking, flogging, paddling, whipping, hot wax, nipple clamps, other clamps and ice. No blood play. Derek could live without blood play.

Everything was marked under bondage. There were no limits.

Sex, in all its variations and permutations, was also on the table. And the desk. And the chair. 

Derek swallowed hard, his libido showing interest. If Rod thought the guy was hot and he wanted bondage with some discipline, Derek definitely wanted a shot.

There were hard limits—pretty much the standards Derek would expect like no water sports or scat—but one in particular caught his eye. No blindfolds while gagged and bound. 

Derek’s mind was now as interested as his libido. He’d always liked figuring out puzzles and nothing gave his inner Dom more satisfaction then helping a sub overcome issues.

Moving toward the front office, Derek was struck with the sudden urge to visit Beacon Hills and by struck he meant olfactorily. 

He detected lime, mandarin orange and lemon along with freesia and jasmine, musk and cedar. It smelled very similar to Clinique Happy, which he associated with…

“Stiles?”

The man sitting by the desk jumped to his feet. “Derek?”

Derek watched with fascination as Stiles’s creamy pale complexion washed to a dull gray and he wobbled precariously, a hand stabbing toward the desk for balance.

There was no mistaking the rapid respirations or the rabbiting heartbeat. Before Derek could say anything the young man wilted and he was forced to lunge forward and grab Stiles’s upper arms before the younger man sagged to the floor or took a header into the desk. 

Derek gently deposited the younger man back in the chair. He eased Stiles’s head down, encouraging the blood flow to his brain, hoping to bring him out of the faint.

“Get off me,” Stiles muttered as he pushed back against the pressure Derek was lightly exerting against his neck with a cupped hand. 

Derek reluctantly allowed him to sit back up but kept a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “I’ll get off you when you no longer look like you’re going to faint again.”

Stiles bared his teeth, scowling at Derek. “I did not faint.” There was the Stiles Derek knew, all snarky bravado despite being a human amongst supernatural creatures. 

Kneeling down next to the chair, Derek peered into Stiles’s face. His eyes were clear but his face was thin with cheekbones so sharp they could cut something. It was an extremely attractive look, Derek could see why Rod thought the young man was da cute dawg, but Derek couldn’t help but compare the adult version to the pudgy faced teenager he’d met years ago and wonder if this change was the result of maturing or something more sinister. 

The younger man cleared his throat, “I’m okay you know.”

Derek scented the stress hormones, took in the once nice Oxford button down he was wearing that was a bit threadbare, and could hear the galloping heartbeat. Stiles was definitely _not_ okay.

“Let me get you a bottled water.” Derek retrieved an Evian from the mini fridge in the corner of the office.

Uncapping it with a quick twist of his wrist, he handed the bottle over to Stiles, detecting a slight tremor in the long fingers that brushed his own. “Hey, when was the last time you had something to eat?”

Stiles’s forehead crinkled in thought. “I, um, think I forgot to have something this morning.”

Derek frowned heavily at the response. Stiles hadn’t actually answered the question but then again he’d spent years around shifters who could read a lie in his heartbeat. If it had been more than a day since the younger man had eaten, that would explain the presumably healthy young man fainting. Derek certainly didn’t delude himself into thinking his surprise appearance had caused the reaction. He and Cora had left Beacon Hills four years ago after they’d defeated the Darach but he’d been on good terms, at least with Scott. 

Returning to the mini fridge, Derek retrieved a Greek yogurt and a plastic spoon from the basket on top of it. He set the snack on the desk. “Here, this should take the edge off.”

“Yogurt? Are you sure you have Moondoggie’s permission to be dipping into his stash?” Stiles reached for the container and peeled off the lid, licking the swath of yogurt clinging to the foil top. 

Derek was so mesmerized by the sensual move it took a moment for Stiles’s words to sink in. “Moondoggie, huh. Does that make you Gidget?”

Stiles stopped reading the yogurt label—Stonyfield Oikos 1 1/2% Fat Organic Greek Raspberry Yogurt—and peered up at Derek. “If this is your yogurt then I think that makes you Fiona.”

“Actually, I would definitely be Michael Westin but now that _Burn Notice_ is off the air, I’ve kind switched my attention to Harvey and Mike.” Derek bit the inside of his cheek as Stiles flailed a bit in place.

“Looky here, the lone wolf has some game. When did you start watching surfer movies and the USA network? You never used to respond to my pop culture conversational gambits before.” Stiles looked far younger than his 21 years when he flashed a natural smile.

“There’s a diner around the corner. Join me for a late lunch?” When his suggestion was met with silence he amended it, “Or an early dinner?” Concerned by the flared nostrils and widening eyes that signaled panic, Derek tacked on, “My treat.”

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t have to buy me a meal, Derek. I’m fine. Really.”

_Fine._ Derek barely contained his snort of disbelief. Stiles wasn’t fine but Derek wanted to do something about that. 

“Come on, it’ll give us a chance to talk about,” Derek hesitated as Stiles’s heart beat shifted into a too fast sprint, “your application to Wicked?” He hadn’t meant his voice to slide up with a question but he found himself trying to placate the younger man. His wolf wanted to take care of him. Derek pushed the wolf down beneath the surface.

Some people were embarrassed to discuss what they wanted when it came to BDSM unless it was leading to a scene. Stiles actually relaxed at the mention of the club.

“Uh, okay. Sure.” Stiles pushed away from the table and Derek remained on alert in case he face planted into it but the younger man easily maintained his balance. He easily bent over and scooped up a battered navy backpack that had been lounging at his feet. Stiles slung it over his shoulder.

Derek loosely curled a hand around Stiles’s free biceps, enjoying the play of muscle under his grip. Stiles might be slim but he was definitely toned.

It might be a little weird having a contract with someone he knew, someone who had accused him of murder once upon a time, but Derek was definitely drawn to the younger man. He’d wait and see how negotiations went before he got his hopes up.

It would definitely be to his advantage to have a partner who knew about, and wasn’t scared by, Derek being a werewolf. 

-0-

Despite having tried to entice Stiles to order something more substantial, the younger man had refused, maintaining that the soup of the day and rolls were enough.

Derek’s metabolism would’ve burned through the meal in an hour or two but maybe Stiles’s svelte look was a function of diet by choice instead of lack of money.

Stiles quietly slurped up the last spoonsful of the soup. “Man, I love minestra maritata.”

“I though it was called Italian wedding soup?” Derek queried. He could see the board featuring the specials and it clearly said Italian wedding soup.

“Potato, potatoh. Whatever you want to call it, it is incredible,” Stiles deflected. 

When Derek had last seen him, Stiles would’ve bombarded him with information about the soup and where he’d found it. The kid had definitely matured and not just physically, although Derek definitely approved of the changes in the man sitting before him.

Derek put a bite of the pork chop in his mouth, chewing slowly as he thought of what he wanted to say about Stiles applying to Wicked. If he had been a stranger, Derek would just level with him. Although his rejecting the application had everything to do with Derek knowing him so following his instincts might not be the right call in this case.

“Why don’t you just say it, Derek?” Stiles asked, his gaze firmly on the roll he was shredded to bits and pieces in his hands. “You’re screening my application out.” Stiles’s tone was resigned.

After swallowing some ice tea—which was totally a ploy to get his thoughts in order and failed abysmally because he still didn’t know what to say—Derek came right to the point. “I don’t think you’re a good fit for Wicked but I’m, uh, looking for a partner.”

“Congratulations?” Stiles murmured as he dusted the crumbs from his fingers and started rolling his sleeves down from where he’d had them folded back.

Stiles used to always make connections even when there wasn’t much there so Derek was surprised the younger man didn’t seem to be following Derek’s line of thought. “A partner who is aware of the supernatural world, specifically that I’m a part of that world,” Derek explained quietly.

The human snorted; another sign that the Stiles of yesteryear was still in residence. “Yeah. Good luck with that. Although if anyone can pull it off, I suppose it’s you.” Stiles slid out of the booth and stood up, grabbing his backpack. “I’ll keep my eyes open for you. Thanks for dinner.”

With those words, Stiles hefted the pack onto his shoulder and began walking away.

Derek was baffled. He’d laid his cards out on the table and had been rejected. Or had he? He still wasn’t certain Stiles realized Derek was talking about a contract between them.

Bolting to his feet, Derek startled a patron walking by as he hustled toward the doorway. “Stiles, wait!”

It felt like every pair of eyes in the diner were on him. Except Stiles’s. The younger man continued on his coarse toward the door.

Derek caught up with him, circling his thin wrist in his grasp. “Please wait. I’m talking about a contract.”

Stiles looked up at Derek, then down at his wrist. “Yeah, I think we already established that. I told you I’d keep an eye out for someone.”

“Stiles. I’m talking about you. A contract with you,” Derek explained.

“Oh,” Stiles said, his face flooding with color.

“Will you come back to the table please? I need to at least settle the bill and then we can go talk somewhere. If you want to, that is,” Derek said. He didn’t want to relinquish his hold on Stiles, afraid the younger man would bolt onto the street and disappear before they had a chance to explore things.

Stiles cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He let himself be towed back to the table, not fighting Derek’s grip on his wrist. He stood silently as Derek threw money on the table. He followed behind Derek as they left the restaurant, like a silent wraith floating along in his wake. Silent and Stiles…two words Derek never thought would go together.

“Um, so where are we going?” Stiles’s curiosity must’ve won out over his quiet compliance. It was a relief.

“I thought we’d go back to my apartment. Talk about a contract. Is that okay?” Derek was always careful to get consent from his subs. 

“Sure.” Stiles paused as though in thought as he matched his strides to Derek’s. “Sure,” he added as if he’d forgotten he’d already agreed.

Within ten minutes Derek was leading Stiles up the staircase of his apartment building, escorting him into his unit on the third floor. It was an older building with what Laura would’ve called ambience. 

“This place has a lot of ambience.” Somehow the fact that Stiles described the building in the same manner Derek imagined Laura would have didn’t escape him. They both had a wry sense of humor and boatloads of sarcasm at their disposal but despite their rough exteriors, they both had sensitivity. 

Derek’s feelings toward Stiles, however, were anything but sibling-like. Once again he touched Stiles, this time at the small of his back, as he guided him into his apartment. The place was reminiscent of his loft in Beacon Hills except it was less industrial looking. His bedroom area was up a flight of stairs that overlooked the apartment and was banked by a wall of windows, which flooded the apartment with natural light during the day and the city’s nightlights after the sunset. Derek was through with creeping around in the dark.

After giving Stiles a quick tour, Derek invited him to sit down on the leather couch. He offered the younger man a drink but Stiles declined.

Derek retrieved a standard contract from the antique oak roll-top desk sitting against the wall outside of the kitchen area. “This is the contract I would like to use. Please read it over. Cross out anything you don’t agree with and initial everything you do. Ask me anything you want. I don’t want a 24/7 sub but due to the hours I keep, it would be easier if you stayed here in the apartment. We could negotiate standard time off or you could just let me know when you wouldn’t be here.”

He waited for a barrage of questions but Stiles took the contract and pen Derek handed him and began skimming through the language, his eyes darting back and forth. Stiles’s appeared deep in thought as his tongue peaked out of his mouth, swiping at the corner. Derek found the nervous habit both adorable and sexy.

Derek distracted himself by getting a can of Coke from the fridge. He didn’t have to worry about caffeine keeping him awake, not with his shifter metabolism, and even though he wasn’t thirsty he needed to do something with his hands. 

Staring out the window, he cupped the can between both hands, occasionally remembering to sip from it.

“Okay, here you go. Do you have any questions or need any clarifications?” Stiles said as he rose to his feet and handed Derek the paper. 

Stiles had opted out of the same things as he had on the club application and written in no blindfolds while gagged and bound as a hard limit which tripped Derek’s curiosity just as much this time as it had earlier that day; he would abide by Stiles’s wishes but he hoped one day the younger man would share more information about it. 

Another hard limit specified that Derek had to do with a scene once per day requirement; the scene didn’t have to be extensive but when Stiles was under the roof, unless both parties agreed to something else, he wanted some power exchange to occur. If Derek didn’t provide that, Stiles could void the contract.

The last hand written hard limit clause stated that Derek couldn’t contact anyone about Stiles.

To say that Derek’s interest was piqued was an understatement but he would agree to anything that didn’t put Stiles in physical harm, that’s how excited he was to consummate their agreement.

Stiles hadn’t modified any of the other language Derek included in the contract like reimbursement, exclusivity and other requirements. 

“Do you want to specify anything about the living arrangements?” Derek pressed.

“I’ll stay here unless you need me to go or something comes up,” Stiles responded, shrugging. “I’m pretty flexible when it comes to housing.” Derek’s hunch that Stiles was homeless seemed to gain more traction.

Derek had one more clarification. “This will be an exclusive contract.”

“Yes, Derek. Just like it’s outlined in the contract,” Stiles retorted.

Derek took the pen Stiles offered and signed off on the contract. “I’ll get a copy of this to you tomorrow.”

Stiles clapped his hands together. “Okay, so how do you want to do this?”

“I think I’d like to make us dinner, maybe watch a movie or something, and then turn in early,” Derek suggested, mentally already reviewing the contents of his pantry and refrigerator.

“Do you think we could do a scene with some light discipline tonight?” Stiles sounded tentative but he held eye contact with Derek, refusing to look away. “I think it would be good to do a scene right away.”

“You almost passed out earlier, Stiles. I really think we ought to just cool it tonight. Tomorrow will be here before you know it and then we can do a scene together,” Derek insisted. Stiles’s health and wellbeing were the most important things to Derek and he took his responsibilities very seriously.

Stiles was prepared to argue his case. “But—”

“No, Stiles.” Derek cut him off. “Please trust me. You need some rest.” Even though this was an exchange of power between equals, Derek had to do what he thought was in his sub’s best interest.

“Could we at least—”

Derek interrupted again. “No.” 

He refused to take chances with Stiles’s health. He was on the verge of explaining his rationale when Stiles’s pursed his lips together and his shoulders dropped but the younger man the discussion drop. “Do you need me to help with anything in the kitchen?”

They’d only left the restaurant an hour ago but if Stiles was interested in food, Derek was interested in providing it. “I’ll let you put the salad together while I throw together some pasta.” Derek figured Stiles wasn’t ready for a lot of protein yet but the carbs would do him some good.

The two worked around the kitchen in what turned out to be a well-choreographed dance, crossing paths many times but never bumping into each other. Thirty minutes later Derek put the pasta dish, thick spaghetti coated with Paul Newman’s Sockarooni sauce, on the counter next to the salad bowl. The two men ate while perched on the high barstools at the counter that faced the windows, watching the waning light.

Stiles declined the wine and settled for water. He pushed around more food than he ate but if his new sub wasn’t used to eating regularly, Derek could understand his reluctance to over do things. Derek started plotting the meals he could make in the future. He never wanted to see Stiles near fainting again unless it was from coming too much.

The yawning started as the two did the dishes. There was a companionable silence only broken by the cracking of Stiles’s jaw. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

Derek had a theory about why Stiles was so tired—too much stress and not enough food or sleep. He kept his theory to himself.

“Why don’t you take the bed and I’ll sleep down here tonight?” Derek suggested. He’d love to take Stiles to bed but he wanted to take things slow. Do things right.

Stiles huffed. “I really wish you’d reconsider, let us do a quick scene. I could really use it.” White teeth sunk into a thick lower lip and it was just about Derek’s undoing. Derek wanted his sub to be happy. Content. He just didn’t think Stiles was up to anything physically demanding. 

“No, not tonight,” Derek responded, crossing his arms. Signaling the end of this conversation.

“Okay but I’m not going to let a Dom sleep on the couch. If you have a blanket and a pillow I’ll be fine out here,” Stiles said, motioning to the living room.

“All right. Let me get you set up down here,” Derek said. “You remember where the bathroom is right? Extra towels are in the linen closet and if you need a spare toothbrush, there’s one under the sink.”

“Thanks,” was softly murmured as Stiles grabbed his backpack and shut himself in the bathroom.

Derek listened to the water in the shower hit the tub surround. He imagined Stiles stripping out of his clothing, testing the temperature of the water, stepping into the stall. Water striking what Derek suspected was a glorious body.

Derek wanted to be striking that body. Then soothing it.

His cock thickened behind unrelenting denim.

He made himself move away from the bathroom to get the blankets and pillow.

It was going to be a long night but Derek suspected it would be well worth it in the long run.

-0-

Derek woke up, a smile on his face. He’d been content with his life as of late but this was the first time in a long time he was actually excited. 

Excited to put Stiles through his paces. Make a connection. Explore this relationship.

It had taken a long time to fall asleep last night but Derek was surprised to see he’d missed the sunrise; he was always up with the sun. He also expected he’d be up before Stiles.

Concentrating as he searched for another heartbeat, Derek was on his feet and running toward the stairs leading down to the living room when he couldn’t hear it.

Maybe Stiles had stepped out for something to eat.

Derek found the blanket folded neatly, pillow stacked atop it, on the leather couch but no sign of Stiles. A piece of paper was propped on the coffee table, stuck between a coaster and a stack of books.

Grabbing the paper, Derek scowled as he realized it was the contract. The word _Void_ was written across it with Stiles’s initials. At the bottom of the contract was a note.

_I don’t think this is going to work out. I have certain needs and you don’t seem willing to work with me. I’ll keep my eyes open for someone who is suitable for you. SS_

Derek growled. “Damn it, Stiles.” 

Derek’s cell phone, sitting on his nightstand upstairs, pinged a message. He turned around, grumbling under his breath, as he stomped back up the stairs.

It was Rod. _HUYA? DCD @ Circus. STPPYNOZGTW_

Rod’s texting was as difficult to parse as his surfer-speak.

_Head Up Your Ass._

_Da Cute Dawg is at Circus._

_Stop Picking Your Note, Get To Work_

Shit. Stiles had ended up at the club with practically non-existent rules. Derek often wondered how Rod came by his information but Derek didn’t question it.

Derek responded: _TFTU. IOU._

At least he thought _TFTU_ meant _Thanks for the Update._ Rod really made Derek appreciate proper grammar.

Derek threw open his closet and donned his battle gear. He wasn’t a Dom who needed to dress the part to be respected but sometimes the leather pants and duster made a necessary statement. 

He was out the door and in his Toyota in sixty seconds. He missed the Camaro at times like this; the Toyota was a practical choice but it lacked the presence of the sports car.

Despite avoiding the club, Derek knew where to find it. He parked in the underground structure behind Circus. 

Derek stepped through the entrance, daring the bouncer to approach him. The muscular man looked away from Derek, avoiding confrontation. The place was dark, an insidious dance beat chipping away at Derek’s composure.

He inhaled deeply: the citrusy scent infused with freesia, jasmine, musk and cedar tickled his nose. Stiles had definitely been in this building. Recently. Hopefully was still here. Derek owed Rod for the tip.

Picking his way through the assorted attendees, Derek recognized one or two faces and he instantly became worried. These were Doms shunned by those who went to Wicked. Who took what, and who, they wanted without regard for the other person’s wishes.

Head down, Derek followed his nose. To the back of the building where there was a hallway with several rooms. Playrooms.

“Look at you. You’re quite the specimen, aren’t you?” The voice put Derek’s teeth on edge, his fangs threatening to drop. “I hear you’re a pain slut but it takes a lot to make you fly. Let’s put that to the test.”

Emmett. He was human but persisted in acting like a vampire. Derek had heard he emulated himself after some character in that Twilight series, big and buff with a certain charm, but the guy did what he wanted. He easily attracted subs but couldn’t hang on to them. It didn’t surprise Derek that Emmett had taken to haunting such an underground establishment.

Crack!

“Ow!” If Derek hadn’t already zeroed in on Stiles’s scent, he would’ve recognized the whimper of pain.

Stiles might have tried dissolving their contract but Derek hadn’t so as far as he was concerned, another Dom was playing with his sub without his consent.

The door caved to Derek’s kick, exploding inward.

The Dom scowled at Derek, flipping his reddish blond fringe out of his eyes with a huff. “This is a private sesh.”

The guy couldn’t even be bothered to fully pronounce his words. Perhaps two syllables were more than he could handle.

“And that’s my sub. Leave or I’ll tear your head off,” Derek growled. He let his fangs drop this time, unconcerned when the other man squawked. “Have at him, Hale. He might be pretty on the outside but he’s a disappointment.” 

Derek stared Emmett down until he disappeared out the door. He kneeled down and quickly undid the ropes securing Stiles to the spanking bench. The younger man was still clad in red boxer-briefs but the rest of his clothing was missing from the room.

“Stiles, are you okay?” Derek queried. It didn’t seem like he was, trembling and cringing on the padded bench.

Derek tried again. “Stiles, it’s Derek. I’m going to get you out of here. Okay?”

Stiles mumbled, “Derek,” his voice slurring ominously and Derek took this to be his assent and that’s all he needed to hear. He slipped out of his leather duster, shaking it out and laying it gently over Stiles’s hunched back and shoulders. Derek levered the shivering man up and then lifted him, bracing an arm under Stiles’s bent knees and the other behind his back. He didn’t think Stiles would appreciate being cradled like this in public but he was too out of it to object.

Why was Stiles so out of it? Derek took a surreptitious sniff but didn’t smell anything, not even alcohol. Despite this Stiles seemed drugged. Even his respirations were slow.

Derek was pretty certain Stiles had been roofied. He didn’t know whether to be mad at that dick Dom, Emmett, this place for letting it happen, or Stiles for putting himself in this position.

Pushing aside his irritation, Derek moved toward the back door. He didn’t care that an alarm was going to sound when he pushed open the exit; he just wanted to get Stiles somewhere safe. Somewhere he could take care of him.

Derek made it to the underground parking structure without anyone accosting them. The leather was slippery and Derek had to hitch his burden in his arms to keep him secure. Stiles pressed his nose into the side of Derek’s neck and nuzzled. 

“Hey, Stiles, are you with me?” Derek cajoled. A silent Stiles was more alarming than the teenager who used to bludgeon Derek with words and Derek would give almost anything to hear him speak right now.

“De-rek?” There was still slurring and when Derek looked down, he glimpsed the glassy–eyed stare that was at such odds with Stiles’s normal bright-eyed brown gaze. “I’m scared.”

The confession broke Derek’s heart. He’d seen Stiles in many situations when the teen should’ve been more scared yet he had remained fearless. Well not exactly fearless; he had the good sense to display his fear through his scent and his heartbeat but he’d stood tall. Wielded his bat in the face of the Alphas. Kept Derek and himself afloat in the pool for hours. Agreed to do whatever it took to save Derek even if that meant cutting his arm off even though Stiles hated blood. 

“It’s okay, Stiles. I’ve got you. I’m not going to let you go,” Derek soothed. The words might have been cringe-worthy they were so saccharine coated but they seemed to do the trick, Stiles subsiding into Derek’s arms with a trust that melted something within Derek.

The Toyota was right where Derek left it and he maneuvered Stiles into the passenger seat with a bit of juggling. Stiles didn’t want to remain upright so Derek let him lean into the window, using the seatbelt to secure him as best he could.

The ride back to his apartment was a blur and Derek didn’t really breathe easily until he’d carried Stiles upstairs, settling him on the bed. Derek grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before he stripped out of his clothing, leaving only his black boxer-briefs. He wanted nothing more than to snuggle naked with Stiles but this was about what Stiles needed.

Sliding an arm under Stiles’s shoulders, he levered the younger man up and held the bottle to his lips. “Can you sip some water for me, Stiles?” He was worried about dehydration since he didn’t know what, if anything, the man had ingested.

The younger man complied, sipping daintily, consuming maybe half of the bottle before turning his head to the side. Derek set the bottle on the nightstand before he pulled down the comforter and sheet on one side. Stiles was once again lifted into his arms before he nestled him down, folding the covers over him.

Derek went to the other side and slid under the layers. He knew he was going to be too warm but Stiles’s skin was cool and clammy. Derek pulled his sub into his arms, half of Stiles’s body resting atop his own. 

Listening to the steady heartbeats and respirations was soothing.

Derek’s wolf settled down for the first time in years.

-0- 

Derek crossed his arms as he stared down at Stiles who sat on the edge of the couch in the living room. Stiles looked like he had one hell of a hangover. He was damned lucky that’s all he had to show for his little stunt. He easily could’ve ended up in the hospital…or worse.

“Did you really want to void our contract?” Derek asked, his voice quiet.

Stiles looked down toward Derek’s feet. “I need a scene every day and you weren’t adhering to our contract.”

“Stiles,” Derek sighed on a long breath, “we hadn’t been in a contract for a full twenty-four hours so I hadn’t had an opportunity to break the contract yet, had I?” Derek raised an eyebrow. Stiles didn’t get the full effect of Derek’s efforts because his eyes were still downcast. “Let me rephrase—do you want to void the contract?”

That brought Stiles’s attention upward until he stared into Derek’s face. “Well, no, not really.”

“Then you accept your punishment for doing something so incredibly stupid you almost got yourself killed? I mean, you went to Circue and you let Emmett touch you. Emmett!” Derek didn’t mean to lose control but the mere thought of that creepy human even looking at Stiles was torture. 

Stiles flinched back into the cushions of the couch, blinking at Derek’s vehemence. “I, uh, thank you for coming to get me,” Stiles murmured. His face flushed becomingly but he held eye contact. “What I did was dangerous and wrong and I accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”

Derek’s anger deflated faster than a popped balloon. How could he stay upset with a repentant, gracious sub?

“Fine. Strip your clothing,” Derek commanded. He pulled the leather ottoman away from the couch and settled on it, legs spread comfortably.

Stiles gracefully stripped out of his t-shirt, jeans and boxer-briefs. He folded them carefully and set them on the arm of the couch.

Derek instructed, “Stand on my right. Color?”

“Green,” Stiles answered promptly. Derek heard the human’s heart pick up its pace but he didn’t know if it was fear or excitement.

Once Stiles compiled, Derek reached out, caught him around the waist and settled him deftly over his lap, face down.

Stiles huffed a breath of surprise but settled quickly.

Derek rubbed the skin of Stiles’s ample ass, enjoying the soft texture. Stiles’s body remained tensed so Derek lifted his hand and brought it down quickly on Stiles’s right cheek.

Then his left.

_Smack!_

_Smack!_

“Please count the strikes and thank me for the correction,” Derek ordered. “A total of twenty. If you lose count then we begin again.”

Derek began spanking Stiles, the hits not as hard as the initial two strikes. Stiles made it to ten, counting easily, but then his breath became labored.

“Eleven, thank you, Sir,” Stiles sobbed.

“Color?” Derek prompted.

“Green, sir,” Stiles insisted.

The fifteenth strike brought visible weeping, Stiles’s voice sounding congested. Stiles’s ass was definitely a pretty scarlet color but Derek worried about bruising it. He thought about suspending the punishment but he needed to set the tone for future interactions. 

Derek continued but he eased up on the strength for the last four strikes and was pleased with his decision when Stiles sighed out, “Twenty. Thank you, Sir,” his tone floaty.

“You were beautiful,” Derek praised. “You’re forgiven.”

Derek hauled Stiles upright and quickly rose to his feet. He sat on the couch and eased Stiles over his lap so that his buttocks were cradled in Derek’s lap without much contact. “Such a good boy,” Derek complimented as he pulled pain from Stiles’s bruised posterior. 

Stiles’s warm, naked body wriggled in Derek’s hold until he sighed, nuzzling Derek’s chest, an action that pleased Derek’s wolf.

Stiles had accepted his punishment flawlessly. Only time would tell if he had learned his lesson but he seemed to be no stranger to a Dom’s correction.

Derek didn’t spend much energy dwelling on the Dom/sub relationship with Stiles. He was too busy enjoying the aftercare. He had a dozy, compliant, snuggly armful of Stiles and it was the most at peace Derek had felt in since he was a child.

-0-

Derek and Stiles were sitting at the breakfast bar, munching on their respective breakfasts in companionable silence. This had been their pattern for three weeks now and Derek appreciated it.

Actually, Derek appreciated everything about his life. 

Usually Derek was loath to break the silence but this morning he found he had a thirst for knowledge. “Hey Stiles, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Stiles answered distractedly, attention still on the newspaper folded next to him.

“Do you ever think about going back to Beacon Hills?” Derek asked. Since reconnecting with Stiles, Derek had actually given quite a bit of thought to it. His family was buried there and he assumed so was Stiles’s mom; it might be nice to take a drive and pay their respects.

The spoon Stiles was using clunked heavily into the bottom of his bowl. Stiles shoved the cereal away from him, hand dragging through his hair. From distracted to agitated in no time flat. “No. I don’t,” he answered.

“But,” Derek began but he read Stiles’s body language, arms tightly crossed over his chest, hands gripping the opposite arm tightly…Derek had blown it. He wanted to backtrack but it was too late.

Stiles had swiveled in his seat so he could stare at Derek. “Do you remember when you came back to Beacon Hills looking for your sister? How you didn’t want to explain to anyone what was going on including what happened with the fire?” The weird thing about this exchange was Stiles wasn’t angry or flustered or sad. No, his expression was blank.

Derek cleared his throat. “Yeah, I remember. I was a real asshole to you and Scott.”

A minute twinge of the jawline was Derek’s only clue Stiles was affected by what Derek had said. Derek didn’t think it had to do with him being an asshole. No, it had to do with Stiles’s best friend, Scott McCall.

“I don’t want to talk about Beacon Hills. Some really shitty stuff went done there and that’s saying something once you figure in Gerard, the Darach and the crazy Alpha Pack. Let’s not forget about _the darkness_ ,” Stiles threw air quotes around the phrase, “around my heart while we’re at it. There’s nothing about that place that makes me want to reminisce about it,” Stiles explained and Derek had to admit, there was logic to it.

Except for the part where Stiles’s father and best friend were still back in Beacon Hills.

“Okay,” Derek put his hands up. It wasn’t meant to be defensive, merely a gesture of appeasement. “I just want you to know you can always talk to me about whatever. I’m not going to judge you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about it. What I need from you is daily discipline. You keep giving me that and I’ll be fine,” Stiles responded. His body language had relaxed and his tone was placid.

Stiles’s words hurt. The other man didn’t want that intimacy Derek associated with a solid relationship. No, right now Stiles only wanted one thing from Derek. Well two if you counted meeting his basic needs.

Derek reminded himself he and Stiles had signed a contract for six months and that was plenty of time to develop other aspects of their relationship. The desire for a deeper relationship with Stiles was a bit of a revelation.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold up my end of the contract,” Derek assured Stiles.

Grabbing up his plate Derek took it to the sink. After rinsing it he placed it in the dishwasher along with his fork. He liked keeping the apartment tidy and so did Stiles, which Derek never would’ve guessed based on his previous experiences with the sarcastic, flailing Stiles of yesteryear.

Not wanting to upset Stiles further, Derek excused himself and headed in to Wicked. Running a business meant a constant, steady stream of paper work and if Derek wanted to come home and do a scene with Stiles then he’d better go pay the piper.

-0-

This was Derek’s favorite time of the day—the time when he and Stiles did a scene.

A storm outside raged on as Derek quickly bound Stiles’s arms behind him, draping them over the chair back, before checking that his lower limb were secured to the chair legs. The ball gag was red and not overly large and he slipped it into Stiles’s soft mouth before fastening the buckles behind his head.

Stepping back, Derek admired his handiwork. With his long limbs tied down and his mouth parted around the gag, Stiles was a sight to behold.

Lightning blinded his eyes a beat or two before a clap of thunder shook the windows.

Stiles gasped when the lights flickered, his breathing picking up pace. If the scene had been underway already, Derek would’ve understood the building tension in Stiles’s body. The wide eyes roamed between the window and Derek, broadcasting his sub’s unease.

This time the jolt of light and sound arrived with a seamless one-two punch. The soft buzz of the refrigerator and the lamp in the corner gave out simultaneously, plunging the apartment into both a deep silence and darkness.

Stiles had talked sparingly about the darkness around his heart and although he’d never admitted to nyctophobia, Derek had certainly noted his unease and always left a light burning somewhere in the apartment at night to counteract it.

The soft whimper from the chair kick started Derek into action. “It’s okay, Stiles. I have a flashlight in the utility drawer. I’m not going far, just taking ten steps to get it.” 

Flash-bang!

Derek wasn’t afraid of the dark or storms but the deafening clap of thunder on the heels of the blinding flare made him jump this time as the storm seemed to be right on top of the apartment building.

Soft sobbing accompanied the rocking of the chair and before Derek could make it back to Stiles’s side, the chair crashed over.

Stiles might not be able to see in the dark but Derek could and he abandoned the hunt for the flashlight in favor of comforting his sub. In seconds he was crouching down next to Stiles, his claw cleaning slicing through the gag’s strap. He pulled the ball out of the lax mouth, expecting a cry or shout or something, but was confronted with total silence.

Crap, maybe Stiles had knocked himself out. “Stiles, can you hear me?”

“Momma? Will you let me out? I promise to be good.” Stiles whispered.

Was Stiles fucking with him? 

“Momma?”

“Stiles, it’s Derek. I’m going to cut you loose now.” Derek carefully clawed through the ropes binding Stiles, lifting him away from the broken chair. A sharp intake of breath caught Derek’s attention and he shifted the pliant body until he was cradling Stiles in his arms.

“Stiles, hey, are you hurt? Talk to me please,” Derek cajoled.

Stiles burrowed against Derek’s chest, smashing his face into the side of Derek’s neck.

If he could get to the flashlight then he could get the matches and light some candles but there was no way Derek could set down the body clinging to his. Derek settled on the couch, drawing Stiles more tightly into his arms. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay, Stiles.”

Stiles vibrated, his body quivering. His exhalations were fast outpacing his inhalations; Stiles was on the fast track to hyperventilating. Derek shifted his sub so that Stiles’s chin perched on his shoulder as he rubbed soothing circles on his back. “Easy, Stiles. Just breath with me. In…out. In…out.”

Derek could hear the laboring air exchange and he wasn’t particularly surprised when the weight of Stiles’s head grew heavier on his shoulder and his body lost its tension; the younger man had passed out.

Content to just hold Stiles close, Derek jolted when Stiles’s body jerked, his hand and feet flapping and then contracting. Was he having a seizure? “Shit, Stiles!”

Derek rolled Stiles on to his side, sliding out from beneath him so he could maneuver him into recovery position.

His hand smoothed the hair back from Stiles’s face, again and again, while Derek willed him to wake up. At least the flapping had ceased and Stiles’s breathing pattern was evening out. He couldn’t scent any blood either so Stiles hadn’t cut himself on the chair.

Soft light from the lamp licked over Stiles’s resting form as the power was restored. 

Stiles trembled and Derek pulled the decorative throw from the back of the couch and settled it over Stiles, tucking the ends under his feet, and around his back. It wasn’t cool in the apartment but Derek was going to treat Stiles like he was in shock until he could figure out what was going on.

Derek retrieved the flashlight, a candle and his cell phone before returning to Stiles’s side; if the power went out again he wanted to be ready. 

Brown eyes blinked open.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

“I want my dad,” Stiles sobbed. The younger man curled up tightly on his side, shivering under the blanket. 

Derek had promised not to contact anyone in Beacon Hills but Stiles was in distress, emotional instead of physical, and he couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

Checking his contacts, Derek found Scott and before he could talk himself out of it, he placed the call.

Scott McCall, True Alpha, answered on the third ring. “McCall here.”

“Scott? It’s Derek. I’ve got a situation and I need your help.”

The alpha cleared his voice. “I’m afraid I’m in the middle of a situation myself and stretched a bit thin. I’ve got other contacts though. Tell me what’s up and I’ll see what I can do.”

Scott’s voice was more weary than wary and Derek didn’t really want to add to his stress but he didn’t know what else to do. “It’s about Stiles.”

Before he could finish his thought, Scott was jumping right in. “Stiles! Where is he? Is he with you?”

“Yeah, Scott, he’s here with me in San Francisco. Something’s wrong though. He’s in some sort of shock and I don’t know what to do.” Derek really didn’t want to get into Stiles calling for his long dead mother over the phone. Best to do that in person.

Scott sighed. “Can you text me your address? I can be there in two or so hours I think.”

“Yeah, sure. What should I do about Stiles until you get here?”

“Just make sure he doesn’t leave. I’ll see you soon.” The parting was more abrupt then Derek had expected. He’d thought Scott would demand to speak with Stiles or fire off a million questions about his best friend.

Derek dutifully texted Scott his address and then went to the kitchen to brew some tea. He wasn’t sure Stiles would drink any but Derek thought it just might settle his own nerves.

-0-

The staccato knock snapped Derek out of his reverie. Stiles tensed in his arms at the loud noise but other then opening his eyes, he didn’t respond further.

Derek settled him against the couch cushions before he answered the door.

Before he could greet Scott, the alpha was pushing into his apartment, Alan Deaton on his heels. “Where is he?”

“He’s on the couch in the living room. He had a bit of an episode and since then he’s been near catatonic. What’s going on?” Derek asked, talking to Scott’s back.

Derek followed the two men and was surprised to find Stiles on his feet, gaze jumping between Scott, Deaton and toward the front door.

“Don’t even try it!” Scott barked.

“Scott, what the hell is going on?” Derek felt like he’d wandered into a movie theater halfway through the showing and the plot was too complex for him to follow.

Stiles launched himself toward Derek, his arms twining around his neck, burying his face in the joint between neck and shoulder. “Shhh, it’s okay.” Derek rubbed slow, big circles against Stiles’s back, pushing the thin material of the t-shirt around.

“Derek, that’s not the real Stiles. He’s been possessed.” Scott’s voice was low as he stalked closer.

Possessed? Derek didn’t know a whole lot about possession but right now it seemed more likely that Scott was the one possessed. His mouth was twisted and his fists clenched and unclenched as he stared at Stiles’s back.

“Please, Derek. Move away from him. We’ll take care of this.” Deaton’s voice was mellow but his face was tight with tension.

“Stiles, talk to me. What’s going on?” Derek had to work to gain separation between their bodies but he needed to see Stiles’s eyes. He grasped the pointed chin and tipped it up to view big, dark eyes welling with moisture.

“You can’t trust him!” Scott snarled right before he ripped Stiles away from Derek, his hand closing brutally around Stiles’s left wrist.

Stiles cried out, falling to his knees.

Deaton swooped in, brandishing a hypodermic needle, which he smoothly injected into the side of Stiles’s neck.

The human crashed toward the floor, his left temple connecting with the corner of the coffee table with a sickening squish.

“Scott, what the fuck?” Derek pushed past the two men, kneeling down beside Stiles.

Gently he rolled the younger man to his back, not liking the pliancy of those long limbs. Derek grimaced when he saw blood beading slowly on the side of Stiles’s face along with a blooming bruise. “Stiles, can you hear me?”

“Derek, let me examine him,” Deaton cajoled. 

Derek was torn. His instincts said not to trust the two men but unless it had to do with sex, Derek didn’t listen to his instincts much. He thought of Kate. Even in sex his instincts only ever let him down.

Pushing to his feet, Derek stood back. He crossed his arms as he looked on impassively.

Scott pushed forward and he and Deaton lifted Stiles to the recliner with more gusto then he thought was warranted. The men trussed Stiles to the chair tightly with ropes produced from Deaton’s ever-present vet bag. Deaton even applied a length of duct tape to his lax lips.

Derek couldn’t keep silent anymore. “What are you doing? Jesus, Scott. He’s unconscious, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. And what’s with the duct tape?” 

“You can’t trust him, Derek. He’ll draw you in with lies. You don’t know what he’s capable of doing. What the Nogitsune is capable of doing.” Scott spit out. He kept his attention on Stiles.

“Then why don’t you explain it to me?” They were all crazy as far as Derek was concerned. He regretted ever inviting Stiles into his life. He glanced at the younger man. No, he didn’t regret it; the hours he’d played with Stiles’s body had been the best of his life. He regretted the storm and the power going out but most of all, he regretted calling Scott.

“The time for talking is over. I need to see what’s been going on since he left Beacon Hills.” Before Derek could draw breath to question him further, Scott was moving around the back of the chair. Claws distended, Scott plunged them into the base of Stiles’s neck.

Derek’s body jerked in a full body cringe before he propelled himself toward the alpha. Cool metal knocked into his face and he stuttered to a stop. “Loaded with wolfsbane. I suggest you relax and sit down.” Deaton shoved him toward the couch and he collapsed on it gracelessly.

It was a nightmare and Derek was helpless to a put a stop to it.

“The Nogitsune is a dark kitsune, a trickster fox spirit, and he has possessed Stiles for four years. He killed Allison Argent. He killed one of the twins from the Alpha pack. He even killed Sheriff Stiliniski. There were more fatalities at the hospital. It thrives on pain and tragedy, strife and chaos. We have to put a stop to this.” Deaton’s voice droned on, practical and unfeeling.

Stiles’s father was dead? 

Scott’s face creased in deep concentration. “I can’t find a trace of it. There should be something here.”

“Dig a little deeper, Scott. The Nogitsune can hide for a while but there’s nowhere for it to run.” Detached. That was the perfect word to describe the one time emissary. He didn’t give a fuck if Stiles lived or died.

Derek chewed on his thumbnail. It was a disgusting habit, one he’d long broken, but this waiting was slowly driving him mad.

He’d spent the last month with Stiles and although he suspected a disorder like PTSD, he hadn’t seen anything that made him think Stiles was possessed. The only pain he’d caused had been to himself. 

A loud squelch signaled the withdrawal of Scott’s claws from Stiles’s nervous system. “There’s a lot of disgusting memories,” Scott shot Derek a dirty look, “but no sign of the Nogitsune. Is that possible?”

“No, it shouldn’t be poss—“

The inert body tied to the chair interrupted Deaton’s response as it convulsed. 

With sickening clarity, Derek realized Stiles’s head wound was making him vomit. The duct tape needed to come off. Now.

Derek stood up only to have the gun thrust in his face. “Sit down, Mr. Hale. I won’t tell you again.”

“Can’t you see he’s getting sick? He’s vomiting and he’s going to aspirate!” Derek was still on his feet, his eyes pleading with Scott. He wasn’t even going to try to reason with Deaton who was too worried about the trickster.

“Alan, what if it’s Stiles?” Scott’s eyebrows were drawn up, perplexed. 

“Fine. The kanima juice should render the Nogitsune paralyzed for a little longer.”

“You paralyzed him?” Derek shook his head in disgust as he pushed past Deaton, his fingers peeling back the duct tape. They were trying to kill Stiles, of that Derek had no doubt.

Yellow saliva dripped from the corner of Stiles’s lips. It smelled acrid, like bile. 

Derek placed a hand on Stiles’s forehead and put the fingers of his other hand under the bony part of his chin. Pressing down on the forehead, he lifted out the chin so that the mouth was slightly open; it was a parody of Stiles’s usual open-mouthed expression. 

Stiles gave a shuddering breath so at least Derek knew he was breathing. The inhalation was labored; something was clogging Stiles’s lungs.

“We need to move him into recovery position,” Derek leaned over to slice through the rope but Scott caught his wrist.

“It might be a trick.” Scott looked uneasy but he refused to let Derek go.

Derek yanked his hand free. “You already paralyzed him.”

Scott’s lips were drawn in a straight line. He wasn’t going to give.

“Fuck it, if you’re going to shoot me then go ahead and shoot me.” Derek couldn’t stand by any longer. He’d rather take a wolfsbane laced bullet then watch Stiles die.

“Scott, we need to do some more tests, make sure the Nogitsune is no longer possessing Stiles,” Deaton’s steady voice, without inflection, insisted.

Derek ignored the two men, finally slicing through the ropes binding Stiles—the wrong kind of ropes and definitely the wrong scene—and moved the inert man on to his side.

“No, I couldn’t find any trace of the Nogitsune. This is over,” Scott asserted his authority.

Derek could feel Scott staring at his back but he refused to acknowledge them. He was too busy grabbing his phone and dialing 911.

“Derek, can you tell Stiles—?”

“Come on, Scott. We need to return to Beacon Hills.”

Derek never was sure what Scott was going to ask him to tell Stiles but he was too busy giving the dispatcher his address and a rundown on Stiles’s condition.

His door clicked shut behind the men and Derek sighed a breath of relief. 

Derek had violated one of Stiles’s hard limits. If Stiles survived this (the voice inside his head screamed _when!_ ), Derek would have a lot of making up to do in order to put his lapse in judgment to rights.

-0-

Derek alternated between pacing and staring at the clock. 

“Derek Hale?” An accented voice called out from the doorway.

Finding his feet before the woman had even finished saying his name, Derek swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and throat. “That’s me.”

The woman in the white lab coat ushered him through the sliding glass doors separating the waiting room from the treatment area. “I’m Dr. Malhotra and I am the Intensivist assigned to your friend’s case. If you’d like to come this way, I have permission from Mr. Stilinski to speak with you about his injuries and then I think you would like to see him, yes?” 

“Yes. Please.” Derek was driving himself crazy, worried about Stiles.

“Your friend must have a very hard head,” the doctor explained as they walked at a brisk pace down the hallway. Derek had to stifle the hysterical giggle that threatened to erupt out of his mouth; Stiles was one of the most hardheaded people Derek had ever met. 

The doctor continued speaking, seemingly unaware of Derek’s inner dialogue. “He has a concussion and we are monitoring him to make sure he does not develop a hemorrhage but if all goes well, he will only have headaches to contend with for a while,” the doctor explained as they walked through the hallway.

“I hear a but,” Derek interjected. The doctor’s accent had a musical quality to it, rising up and down at unexpected times, so maybe he’d misread her.

“Yes, indeed,” Dr. Malhotra responded. “Your friend suffers from aspiration pneumonia. We have him on a strong coarse of IV antibiotics and we will be closely monitoring him to make sure his lungs clear.”

Yeah. That’s what Derek had been afraid of when the druid and True Alpha—now didn’t that just sound like a TV show—had duct-taped Stiles’s mouth closed. 

They traveled upstairs in an elevator and the doctor escorted Derek into a cubicle in the ICU.

“Stiles, I have your friend here. I am going to listen to your lungs and then you two may visit for a while,” she explained patiently as she pulled her stethoscope from around her neck and stuck it down the parted gown to listen intently. “Lean forward, please.”

Derek got his first clear look at Stiles and it was concerning. Darkening skin on the side of his face marred pale, pale skin. Residual glue from the duct tape clung stubbornly to the sides of his face. A prong with life giving oxygen was clipped to Stiles’s nostrils.

It was a wonder the police hadn’t arrested Derek on suspicion of assault and battery. The paramedics had noted Derek’s visible concern over Stiles’s compromised health and that’s probably the only thing that had saved Derek from arrest. He knew he’d be interviewed by the police and soon.

Stiles held his hand out to Derek and he quickly moved to take it.

The hand was cold and clammy and it shook.

“Very good, Stiles. The nurses will be in every fifteen minutes to check on you. Should you need anything, please use the call button,” Dr. Malhotra turned to Derek. “You may stay until the end of visiting hours.” She nodded cordially and then exited the cubicle.

“Oh, Stiles,” Derek sighed as he looked over Stiles and his drooping form. The head of the bed was raised and Derek realized that was to aid in breathing. 

“I’m” Stiles huffed out, had to pause, and then finished, “sorry.”

“No, Stiles. I’m sorry. I called Scott. I didn’t know he was going to do this to you. I thought he would help,” Derek explained.

Stiles withdrew his hand from Derek’s gentle grip but it was the way he hunched back into the pillows, as far from Derek as possible, which really hurt.

“Hard,” Stiles swallowed convulsively, “limit.”

“Yeah, I know. But you weren’t doing so well and I was worried,” Derek tried to explain but Stiles turned his head to the side and stared at the toilet visible against the wall. The only privacy offered by the ICU cubicle was the curtain drawn across the glass wall.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor settled Derek’s nerves. He waited to see if Stiles would say anything else, like kick him out, but the sick man in the bed remained silent. Well save for the labored breaths wheezing in his chest.

Derek crept over to the chair next to Stiles’s bedside and slowly sank into it. Nurses came and went at fifteen-minute intervals and Derek did his best to blend into the woodwork. 

Visiting hours had been over hours ago and yet no one kicked Derek out of the cubicle. 

Stiles shifted on the bed and Derek pressed his hand to the sick man’s arm, drawing pain. The amount of pain present was just crazy and Derek gritted his teeth against it but he persisted.

Unfocused eyes blinked blearily at him. “Dad?”

Oh shit. Stiles must be hallucinating. His fever had been climbing steadily and Derek could sense the alarm in the nursing staff.

Derek could hear the crackling in wheezing whenever Stiles inhaled and exhaled. His lungs were working overtime, his body trying to burn off the infection.

“Sorry, Dad,” Stiles rasped. “My fault your dead.”

No. Just no.

“Stiles, honey, it’s Derek.” Laying both hands on Stiles’s arm, Derek drew more pain from the gasping young man.

“Derek, I…killed my…dad. All my...fault. Allison…Aiden…all those…people…my fault,” Stiles croaked.

A nurse hustled into the room and changed out the bag on the IV pole. “We’re going to try another antibiotic. I’ll be back with a cooling blanket.”

This nurse was dark haired and petite with a very competent manner. Stiles responded well to her and Derek had a hunch it was due to her resemblance to Melissa McCall.

The nurse, Gina, returned with a blanket and she pulled back the sheet covering Stiles and proceeded to roll Stiles on to his side, coaxing him through her movements, as she placed a pad beneath his lax limbs. After settling Stiles more comfortably against the pillows, Gina brushed his hair back from his face. “I’ll be in a little bit to check on you, sweetie.”

Derek smiled gratefully at the nurse. Stiles needed as many people as possible in his corner after all of the crappy things that had happened to him.

Stiles settled a bit, whether from the new antibiotic, the cooling blanket or just running out of energy, Derek didn’t know.

After about an hour, Stiles’s lungs still crackled ominously but the strange rubbing noise was softer. Derek hoped it was progress.

Derek dozed for a while but when Stiles shifted, his eyelids sprang open. Stiles was staring at him, a look of confusion apparent on his face. “Derek?” Stiles mouthed more than said.

“Yeah, Stiles. I’m not going anywhere,” Derek promised. He hoped the hospital staff wouldn’t make a liar out of him.

“It’s my fault…and I can’t make it go away…what can I do? I don’t want to…live like this anymore.” The pauses between words were getting longer but Stiles’s tone of voice was heartbreaking.

Derek knew a thing or two about heartbreak.

“Stiles, you know my shitty history. I suffered from Survivor Guilt. I survived a traumatic event when others didn’t and to make things worse, they died because of a bad decision I made. It took me a long time to come to terms with it but I didn’t kill my family,” Derek shared. “You didn’t kill your dad.”

Stiles opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then closed it abruptly.

Derek continued, “I will tell you this every day until you believe it but your actions were influenced by something supernatural and what happened is not your fault. Kate wasn’t supernatural but she was dedicated to wiping out my kind so I think it’s close enough so based on my experience I’m telling you, no, I’m promising you that you can get past this. It won’t be pleasant, and it’s going to hurt, but eventually that hurt turns into a dull ache instead of a sharp pain and you’ll start to take pleasure in things again. One day at a time.”

Stiles’s eyes were wide, his brow pulled up, perplexed. “Are you giving me…a pep talk?”

“Yeah,” Derek smiled shyly. “I guess I am. It’s just I know firsthand Survivor Guilt is shitty and I don’t want you to suffer through it for as long as I did, not if I can help you.”

“’K,” Stiles sighed and then his eyes closed.

The heart monitor, beeping steadily, assured Derek was Stiles was okay. He held on to that while he studied Stiles’s ashen face.

-0-

Derek knocked on the door to Stiles’s private room and Stiles called out, “Enter!”

The other man’s voice was definitely stronger, and clearer, than it had been even the previous day. “How are you feeling today?” Derek asked.

Stiles smiled; it didn’t light up his whole face but it did reach his eyes. He was sitting up in bed, legs casually crossed, looking relaxed. Derek thought maybe Stiles had turned some sort of corner.

Not that there weren’t going to be rocky days ahead, but still, this was an improvement.

“Definitely better,” Stiles answered before he broke into a coughing fit. Stiles was gasping and hacking but he waved off Derek who was poised to get help.

With an audible intake of air that wheezed, Stiles grimaced. “Sorry, the respiratory therapist said not to fight the cough, I need to get this junk out, but man, it sucks.”

Derek agreed. It was really difficult standing by as Stiles gasped and panted when there was nothing Derek could do to help.

“How was your day?” Stiles asked. He quirked an eyebrow and that simple mannerism let Derek know Stiles was well aware Derek was visiting at a much later time than he had on previous days. Stiles, however, wasn’t going to push; Stiles seemed grateful if Derek volunteered information but the younger man never pressed for more. It was frustrating because after years of not wanting to be accountable to anyone, not even himself sometimes, Derek ached to belong to Stiles. And vice versa.

“I, ah, actually spent some time at Wicked today,” Derek started. Stiles smiled and nodded; that was a typical day for Derek before Stiles ended up in the hospital. 

“Yeah. I’m turning over the day-to-day management of the club to Rod,” Derek finished explaining.

Stiles’s eyes widened and he tried to say something, which devolved into a coughing fit. When he finally caught his breath, Stiles shook a finger at Derek. “Warn a guy, would ya!”

“Stiles, I want to spend more time with you. We haven’t really talked about what’s going to happen when you get out of here but I would really like it if you would move in with me,” Derek made his request.

A frown was Derek’s answer. “You violated one of my hard limits. I sorry but I can’t be your sub,” Stiles explained, tone gentle. 

Oh.

_Oh!_

“As usual, I’m not saying this right. I don’t want you to be my sub. I want you to be my boyfriend or partner or whatever you want to call it. I want to spend more time with you, get to know you better.” Derek paused to draw a breath. With Stiles out of commission, more and more of the conversation had fallen to Derek and he’d been making a valiant effort to carry the load but it was tiring. “I mean I’ll always enjoy the lifestyle but only if you want to explore it. I just want you, Stiles.”

Their dynamic had shifted. Derek had fallen for Stiles pretty much from the moment they’d signed their contract and he’d thought of the vulnerable young man more as his friend, and lover, rather than in terms of a Dom/sub relationship. He couldn’t be happier about the change.

That heart-stopping look Derek lived to see, the one that brightened Stiles’s eyes, no, make that his whole being, and brought out his crooked smile was right there in front of him.

Stiles nodded yes so hard, Derek was afraid he was going to re-concuss himself. “Please.”

Patting the side of the bed, Stiles invited Derek to sit with him. “I took your advice.”

“What advice is that?” Derek wracked his brain, trying to remember what he could’ve said.

“I talked to a staff psychologist. Not about the particulars, obviously, but about how I’d lost some people in my life and how I felt like it was my fault,” Stiles explained, head bent, eyes downcast.

Derek put his index finger under Stiles’s chin and gently lifted it. “What did the psychologist say?”

“That it’s not uncommon to feel that way and he gave me some coping strategies to try,” Stiles made eye contact, nervously chewing on his lower lip.

It was Derek’s turn to nod his head up and down. “Do you think it would help if you talked to this person again?” Derek knew Stiles wasn’t comfortable talking to a stranger and it was a big deal that he’d done it.

“Well, I’d rather talk to you. You know more than anyone else what I went through, and you came out of it okay. You’re also the person who has stood by me through this shit-storm,” Stiles justified his reasoning. Of course Derek didn’t to hear any justification. 

“Stiles, you can always talk to me. And if you think talking to someone else might help, we’ll find someone for you. I’m sure there’s someone here in San Francisco who is supernaturally inclined with a medical practice,” Derek assured Stiles.

Derek would do everything in his power to help Stiles but he wasn’t a professional and he didn’t want to fuck things up. Hell, maybe Derek would speak to a counselor to get some tips on how to help Stiles.

“You know what’s really helped me?” Stiles asked, shyly, peeking at Derek from beneath lowered lashes. It was such a sweet look, Derek melted.

“What’s that?” Derek asked, speaking softly.

“You telling me that some day I would take pleasure in things and you know what? That day was today. You’re a wise man, Mr. Hale,” Stiles responded, still bashful.

Derek had been right when he’d walked into the room and seen Stiles sitting on the bed—the other man had turned a corner. Now Derek had turned one, too.

-0-

Derek woke up and reached for Stiles; when his arm met empty, cool bed, Derek sat up, his heart kicking a double time beat.

Listening carefully Derek heard the sound of Stiles’s heartbeat and he was able to relax. However, instead of snuggling, or something more, with his amore, he heaved himself out of bed and pulled on the pair of jean on the floor next to his bed.

Padding down the stairs, Derek got his first view of Stiles of the day and it was breathtaking: Stiles stood before the window, staring out over the skyline where a thunderstorm was rolling in.

Derek worried the thunderstorm was causing Stiles anxiety—it wasn’t all that long ago the younger man had decompensated during a storm when the power went out—but Stiles seemed to be at peace.

Planting his feet heavily on the last couple of steps so that Stiles could hear him coming, Derek admired the play of muscles over Stiles’s back as he twisted around. The lopsided smile gracing Stiles’s face was appreciated even more.

“’Morning,” Stiles greeted.

“Good morning to you, too. Although it would’ve been a bit better had I woken up with you next to me,” Derek responded.

Stiles rolled his eyes, a habit Derek remembered well from their youth, and Derek found his shoulders relaxing their tension; Stiles seemed to be playful and that boded well for their day. 

Stiles crossed the hardwood floor and pressed a kiss to Derek’s lips. “How about a kiss as a consolation prize since I screwed up your plans?” Stiles teased lightly.

Derek folded Stiles into his arms and hugged him tightly. “I think that will do for a start,” he whispered into Stiles’s sleep tousled hair.

A year ago, hell, two months ago, Derek would’ve been dragging himself through his morning routine, going into Wicked, and just getting through the day. Instead he had the man he cared for, okay loved although he hadn’t said the words yet, here in his life. Since he had reconnected with Stiles, everything had changed—Derek’s approach to life, including his own guilt for the part he’d played in the fire—and that change was for the better.

A large clap of thunder had Stiles skittering against Derek’s bulk. “Hey, it’s okay,” Derek soothed, his hand rubbing up and down Stiles’s spine.

Stiles eased back and tilted his pointed chin up to look at Derek. 

Derek lost himself for a moment as he stared back into the warm, golden brown eyes blinking at him. “Always,” Stiles replied. 

_Always._

 

Finis

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the Survivor Guilt prompt on my Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card. It started off in another direction but moved into pretty dark territory, at least dark for me. I would consider this the opposite of fluff. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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